


He has kissed me (all is shattered)

by orlofthesky



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Awkwardness, Big Sisters, Boys Kissing, Canon Bisexual Character, Canonical Character Death, Consensual Underage Sex, Dare, Declarations Of Love, Developing Relationship, Dorne, Established Relationship, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Father Figures, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fatherhood, Fighting, First Kiss, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Goodbyes, Grief/Mourning, Idiots in Love, Infidelity, M/M, Meant To Be, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Parent Death, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenthood, Pre-Canon, Raising Sand Snakes, Rare Pairings, Separations, Siblings can be awful, Underage Kissing, bereavement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-01-25 12:50:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12531800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orlofthesky/pseuds/orlofthesky
Summary: From the time they were carefree boys in the Water Gardens to the aftermath of the Rebellion: five times Oberyn Martell kissed Arthur Dayne ... and one time Arthur didn't kiss him back.





	1. Dare.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Virginia Woolf's The Waves; what a magnificent book.
> 
> Written as a character study of sorts for the Arthur Dayne in my main story ( _The Poet And The Knight_ ), and then their relationship developed a life of its own and I couldn't stop writing. 
> 
> Tagged character death because this is not a happy ending and not a fix-it, but there's nothing too graphic and definitely no exploding skulls and such. Tagged underage because they are at first, albeit only a year and a half apart in age. 
> 
> Hope you like it. Looking forward to hearing from you in the comments!

It was all Elia’s fault. For all that she was trying to convince them that she was a grand lady already when she’d only just celebrated her eleventh nameday she was still a little girl at heart, annoyingly so. She’d goaded them on to play the stupid game of dare with the new rules she fancied as of late, and of course nobody had been brave enough to defy her. Elia was the queen of the patio, ruler of a realm that consisted of mosaics and fountains and shallow pools and fragrant bitter-orange trees with knotted branches hanging low enough to conquer them, her subjects the dozen or so children who lived in the Water Gardens fostering with or squiring for the ruling house of Dorne.

“I dare you to kiss my brother!” she cried out.

“Kiss him, kiss him!” a couple of voices shouted with glee.

He liked the game better when the dares were still actual dares that required skill and bravery, Oberyn thought. Catching manticores and scorpions, that had been fun. Climbing the castle walls to paint a face onto the Rhoynish sun emblazoned there above the portal, that had been thrilling. Tipping horsepiss and purple dye into the fountains, stealing sweets and treats from the kitchens and evading cook’s inevitable ire, purposefully acting stupid during lessons and answering each and every of Maester Linus’ questions with serious idiocy (Aegon the Conqueror had come to Westeros with his wife, Balerion nicknamed the Black Dread, riding oliphaunts named Visenya and Rhaenys, he had barely been able to keep a straight face let alone sound convincing and he had lost that dare, spectacularly so), sneaking into the dungeons, that was what dares should all be about. Lately it was all kissing and giggling and touching budding breasts, thanks to Elia and some of the older girls who seemed oddly fixated on the matter all of a sudden, and it was annoying and terribly boring.

“Come on, Arthur!” Elia urged him on, “Kiss him, or else …”

Arthur Dayne was blushing so fiercely Oberyn couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. He liked the boy well enough, they had become fast friends ever since he’d come to live with them a year or so earlier. For all that he was a talented fighter he was a shy boy, quiet and earnest, but there was something else to him, a subdued sense of adventure and wickedness that intrigued him. If it had been him he would’ve dared Arthur to steal a real dagger from the armoury, or maybe challenge the Master of Arms to a duel, that would’ve been worthy of him. Kissing, though … that was stupid.

“Don’t worry, I won’t bite,” he said, trying to sound encouraging, but somehow it came out all wrong.

Arthur clenched his teeth, purposefully staring at the ground, mustering up his courage, and then he leaned over, quickly touching his lips to Oberyn’s cheek, barely brushing the corner of his mouth. Oberyn was glad when it was over fast enough; Arthur’s embarrassment was contagious.

Someone booed then and everyone else chimed in, leering and taunting.

“You need to kiss him _properly_ ,” Elia scoffed, full of condescension, “Like a man would kiss his wife!”

“Like a man would kiss his _paramour_!” Daeron was quick to correct, “Most people don't even _want_ to kiss their spouse!”

Seven _hells_! Arthur’s purple eyes went wide. Their gazes met for a spilt second and Oberyn was relieved that while he was obviously uncomfortable he didn’t seem particularly disgusted. He shifted awkwardly, unsure of how to proceed.

“You can still get out of this, you know,” Oberyn said softly. A part of him wished he would, but Arthur shook his head with determination, his spun silver hair falling into his eyes.

He was pretty, Oberyn realised. Not quite handsome yet for all that he would probably grow up to look like an ancient Valyrian god, but pretty. There’s more to him, though. The embarrassed flush on his face was endearing … _cute_ even, though Oberyn knew without doubt that Arthur would not appreciate being described thusly.

“Alright then,” Arthur said valiantly, straightening his shoulders as if he were approaching the training yard sword in hand, “let’s get this over and done with.”

Maybe it would be easier to see it as just another duel, and fighting with Arthur was something he enjoyed tremendously. Sparring, with blunted tourney swords instead of wooden practice swords as of late, marking their passage from boys to younglings. Wrestling, when Oberyn was finally able to beat Arthur, launching at him with his full body, overpowering his friend’s superior strength with quick movements and dexterity. It was a dare after all, and they had to be brave and prove themselves, both of them. The thought was soothing, but it didn’t quite manage to calm his rapid, nervous heartbeat.

“Ten seconds,” Elia insisted, voice stern as a septa’s, “You need to kiss for ten seconds, at the very least, else it’s not a proper kiss.”

Arthur nodded solemnly and Oberyn found himself secretly hoping that they wouldn’t make a spectacle, shouting the numbers as a count-down of sorts … or something. With that lot one could never be sure.

There was a curious flicker in Arthur’s gaze when their eyes met, as if he were asking for consent or forgiveness or possibly both. He took a deep breath and a step towards him, holding out his hands and bowing down ever so slightly as Oberyn stretched and canted his chin upwards. Arthur was a year and a half younger but already quite a bit taller than Oberyn, bulkier of build too.

Arthur put his hands on Oberyn’s cheeks, smooth and trembling palms that were surprisingly gentle, pulling their faces together. Oberyn held his breath as their lips met, tingling. Instinctively his eyes closed and hands went up to Arthur’s shoulders, and the tingling sensation wouldn’t dissipate. It started in his lips and ran all over his body and then it settled deep in his belly.

Was it ten seconds already? Oberyn couldn’t say and he found he didn’t care. They didn’t actually do much but what they were doing was … it was _nice,_ he thought. He _liked_ it.

He liked _Arthur_.

He _liked_ Arthur.

_Seven hells!_

When Arthur breathed against his mouth, moving his supple lips ever so slightly, Oberyn tensed, yanking away. The heat of Arthur’s palms on his face, the fuzzy feeling tightening in his belly, the confusing desire to do something, anything, to hug him tight or maybe _stick his tongue down his throat_ like Daeron regularly boasted of having done to Elia (what good would that be, Oberyn wondered not for the first time, it sounded weird and appalling but it was obviously something you had to do when kissing properly and he couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel like) … it was all too much to bear.

“Fuck you, Elia,” he declared, turning on his heel and stalking out of the patio.

He didn’t turn back once. He didn’t see their bewildered stares and he didn’t see the broken expression on Arthur’s face, and when his friend avoided and ignored him the next day and for many weeks to come he thought it was because that kiss for him had been forced and horrible.

Kissing was _stupid_.


	2. Bed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three or so years after their first kiss on a dare. Oberyn and Arthur - "awkward younglings with croaky voices and patchy facial hair", Arthur will say later when he thinks about that time - have recently taken their friendship to the next level. This chapter involves kissing with no clothes on and kissing places that aren't the mouth.

Oberyn stilled his erratic breath by pressing his face into Arthur’s beautiful behind, placing a kiss onto the puckered flesh that was swollen and shining with the evidence of their recent exploits. A kiss, and then another, and then he finally felt stable enough to move, to settle himself into the cushions after wiping his cock, waiting for Arthur to flip over and come up to him, curling into his side with so much languor and tenderness that made a simple embrace feel way more intimate than being balls-deep inside him. All of this was still new to him, to both of them, and though it had irritated him at first he had come to love it. _Love him_ , a voice whispered in his head, a voice that was frightfully, prematurely right, a voice he desperately wanted to silence.

Oberyn stretched, leaning in for a lazy kiss, his feet stroking along Arthur’s muscled calves, entangling their legs and drawing him closer. Arthur was tense though, definitely not as relaxed as one should be after a thorough fuck.

“What’s the matter?” Oberyn pulled back, giving his lover - for that's what he was now, his _lover_ , so much more than a foster brother or a best friend, he couldn't quite believe it really - a concerned look.

Arthur shrugged, an awkward twitch around his mouth, seeming somewhat reluctant to speak his mind.

“Tell me,” Oberyn urged, and when Arthur fidgeted a dreadful feeling hit him right in the gut. Something was amiss and he should have realised much earlier, probably _while_ they were still fucking. “Did you not enjoy it?” Arthur shrugged again, squirmed again, Oberyn awkwardly squeezed his shoulder in reassurance, feeling tremendously guilty all of a sudden. “Arthur, please … tell me what’s wrong.”

“I don’t know,” he admitted bashfully, “It wasn’t terrible or anything, only … I believe I like it better the other way around. When I’m in you.”

Oberyn let out a relieved sigh that came out as a croaky bark. “Thank the Gods.”

Arthur stared at him aghast. “What?”

Burying his face into Arthur’s shoulder, Oberyn placed a sweet kiss right there in the nape of his neck. “You could have simply said so. I would have stopped. There’s no shame in not liking something.”

“I wanted to know. I’m aware how much you enjoy it … Gods, am I ever!” Arthur beamed at him, fondly cupping his buttocks, and there was a sense of accomplishment written all over his face. “So I thought maybe …”

“Can’t knock it before you try it. I understand.” Oberyn gave a sly smirk. Now that he thought about it there was so much more he wanted to try … not right away, of course, but soon enough. Ever since their first real kiss had evolved into awkwardly fumbling exploration and then something more he found that he was quite insatiable when it came to feeling Arthur’s body upon his.

“I can … I could …” Arthur, the very same Arthur who was always so disciplined and mature beyond his years, was stuttering and fumbling for words; Oberyn didn’t quite know whether to find it adorable or disconcerting. “If you liked it we can do it again. I would, if only for your sake. I might … I might even come to enjoy it in time.”

Shaking his head Oberyn laid his hand on Arthur’s cheek, running his thumb over his prominent cheekbones and the soft stubble that was growing there. He was touched, but … “No. I’d rather we didn’t.”

“Are you sure?” Arthur furrowed his brow, turning to face Oberyn again with more confidence than before. “I mean … I wouldn’t blame you for wanting. I know what being inside you feels like, so …”

Oberyn closed his eyes, sighing. A pang of shame hit him, and it wasn’t only that Arthur was terribly sweet. “I know what having you in me feels like. I think … I think I prefer that.”

“You truly do?”

“Aye, I do.”

When Arthur kissed him he was smiling against his lips, the tension finally leaving his body. He was pressing up close to Oberyn, rubbing their naked forms together, stroking his flushed skin without any evident purpose, making him shiver all over again.

Oberyn gave a contented sigh, and then an idea formed in his mind. Arthur hadn’t spent earlier, he hadn’t failed to notice, and that alone should have been the first sign that something was amiss … Oberyn vividly remembered spilling his seed within seconds when Arthur had entered him for the very first time, utterly overwhelmed by the tight sensation, oh so embarrassed and oh so aroused, and he was ever so glad that Arthur hadn’t been offended to begin with and that he’d since learned to control his desire better.

His hands had been roaming Arthur’s body all along – all defined muscles and well-contained strength, so unlike Oberyn’s own lithe and lanky figure and yet quite familiar by now – so he purposefully moved them downwards while he pried himself away from Arthur’s mouth, one reluctant last suck on his lower lip. He eagerly scrambled up to his knees, leaning over him as he started to trail soft, open-mouthed kisses along the lines of his throat down to his chest. By the time he flicked his tongue over his nipple Arthur was panting, eyes closed and mouth ajar. Oberyn paused, giving a self-satisfied smirk, only to feel Arthur’s hand in his hair urging him on. He was happy to oblige, roaming further down from his navel to his prominent hipbones, stroking his thigh, feeling a sense of urgency build up inside him. By the time he reached the barely visible thatch of pale hair at his crotch Arthur was writhing and moaning below him, a sound and sight that made his own loins tighten again, for all that he had climaxed but minutes before. Oberyn kissed the base of his cock before taking it in his mouth, and upon further consideration he wrapped the other hand around his own shaft, stroking it in the same rhythm he sucked and licked at Arthur.

It was over faster than he would’ve liked and more intensely than he would’ve thought possible. Licking his lips he crawled up again, happy to find Arthur’s arms wide open, welcoming him into a tight embrace.

“Was that better?” he asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

Arthur’s haunting purple eyes were clouded with pleasure and the slack and sated expression on his handsome face said it all. He leaned in for a searingly intimate kiss that was all sweet devotion and raw emotion and elated breathlessness, unlike any other kiss before, but for some reason Oberyn firmly believed it wouldn’t be the last of its kind.

“I love you, Oberyn,” he said quietly.

Oberyn’s breath caught and his heart stopped; blood was rushing in his ears as a white-hot sensation hit him right in the gut, setting him dizzyingly aflame. “What?!”

Arthur raised his hand to Oberyn’s cheek, shaking his head with fond annoyance. “You heard me.”

Closing his eyes and clinging onto his shoulders for leverage Oberyn kissed him again.


	3. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Oberyn brought his bastard daughter home Arthur wasn't all too pleased ... but in the end everything worked out just fine for the three of them.

As he heard the screen door to his solar screech open Oberyn looked up from the writing he was doing, a concerned frown furrowing his brow. Replying to Uncle Lewyn’s long letter suddenly seemed very unimportant. Arthur was hovering in the entrance, wearing his castle guard uniform in resplendent Martell colours, holding a squirming bundle in his strong arms.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said softly, immediately adding an explanation, “It’s alright, don’t worry. Nym took a fall when she was running in the fountains and she was crying for her papa, so I figured I’d bring her. It’s only a scrape but … she’ll need some ointment and a kiss.”

“Of course.” Oberyn stood, circling the desk in one swift motion. He placed a tender hand on Arthur’s shoulder, mouthing a _thank you_ and a blown smack into the air before he focused his attention on his daughter. Nymeria buried her face into Arthur’s shoulder, unwilling to let go when Oberyn plucked her from his arms.

“Papa,” she wailed, “Papa! Want Papa!”

“It’s alright, princess, I’m here. Papa’s here.” Oberyn cradled her in his arms, placing sweet kisses onto her dark mop of hair and her bruised knee, rocking her gently to compensate for her fidgeting, and then he stilled, his heart clenching something fierce. “Seven Hells, Arthur! She’s actually speaking, do you realise she never did that before?”

“She’s growing up fast,” Arthur commented dryly, “You’d better watch that filthy mouth of yours from now on …”

“Oh Nymeria, sweetling! Your papa is so very proud of you!” Oberyn gushed, unable to hide his emotions, but the little girl wouldn’t have any of it.

“Papa!” She was fidgeting again, ferociously kicking her tiny bare feet into her father’s belly. Oberyn took her face into his hands with the brightest of smiles, but instead of making her happy her eyes started brimming with hot tears again, angered at the adults who wouldn’t understand her, sticking her arms out in Arthur’s direction. “Want Papa! Nym want Papa!”

Both men stilled, stunned and shocked. Arthur blushed, Oberyn’s jaw slacked, Nymeria didn’t stop wiggling and screaming until she was back in Arthur’s arms with a satisfied gurgle, grabbing at his headwrap until it came down to his nose.

“Papa!”

“Oh sweetling, I’m not your papa. I’m sorry but I’m not, I’m just Uncle Arthur,” Arthur mumbled hastily, his face aflame with a deep blush, and he was purposefully looking away while he continued babbling to the child, “There’s your papa, look! A very handsome prince he is, and you’re his little princess. And he loves you very, very much.”

“I love you both,” Oberyn cut in, and all of a sudden his arms were around both of them, his daughter and his lover, and his eyes were swimming with an emotion that threatened to drown them. He stretched to kiss Arthur’s cheek, stepping closer when Arthur’s right arm snuck around Oberyn’s shoulders, drawing him tighter into their embrace.

“Do you mind terribly?” Oberyn asked.

“Excuse me? I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“That she calls you Papa. It’s breaking my heart, you know.”

“I’m sorry, Oberyn, I truly am. It’s a misunderstanding, she’s but a babe. She doesn’t know any better. I never would presume …”

There was a desperate sadness in Arthur’s voice that overpowered his apologetic demeanour, making Oberyn feel inherently guilty. Yes, it was a misunderstanding, a tremendous one at that. Of course Oberyn had noticed that his lover and his daughter had grown quite close over the course of the four moon’s turns since Nymeria had come to live with them at the Water Gardens. Even when they had fought bitterly over Oberyn’s betrayal that resulted in her birth Arthur had never been anything but kind to the child, more than that actually. He called her _little Lady Nym_ and _sweetling_ , lavished her with attention, generous with grimaces and tickles and songs, stealthily switching shifts with his fellow guardsmen to take up more nursery and yard duty, always having a little more of an eye on her than on the other children, always making excuses to spend his free time with her too, encouraging Oberyn to bring her along when they went on outings or spent a lazy day by the pools … and of course Nymeria had grown fond of him in kind, fond enough to call him _Papa_ when she probably didn’t even understand what a father was, only that it meant a man who cared for her greatly. A man like Oberyn and, against all odds, a man like Arthur. He never would have thought it possible.

_He loves her so much he can’t bear losing her. And he thinks I would oppose it, he thinks …_

_Idiot!_

_Gods, this is what we should’ve been talking about, not how and why I fucked her mother._

_Idiot! I’m such an idiot._

“Presume, my beloved. Presume all you want …” Oberyn said hoarsely, “I’d be glad to share her with you, that’s what I wanted all along, _that’s_ what’s breaking my heart. I never dared ask, I didn’t want to burden you with this, I know you don’t approve of my sleeping around, I know you don’t want a family …”

Arthur’s left hand, the one that wasn’t holding Nymeria, grabbed for Oberyn’s fingers, clutching them tight. “Oberyn, _love_ …” There was so much conviction in his voice now, in his deliberate choice of words. “I never said I don’t _want_ a family. I thought it impossible is all, and there’s no point in wishing for what you can’t have. I don’t want to wed a lady for I can’t bed her, as you’re well aware, and that is usually the prerequisite for having a family. Until you proved me wrong, that is.”

He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Oberyn stared at him, mouth agape, and he felt his eyes burning with hot tears yet again.

“I’m not exactly thrilled about _how_ she came to be, you know that full well and I’ll thank you not to repeat it, but remember what you said when you brought her home? You’re not sorry _that_ she came to be, and neither am I. As far as I’m concerned you _are_ my family, both of you. I didn’t want to intrude, but … if you’ll have me?”

“Seven hells, Arthur!”

“Language, Oberyn!”

“Papa!” Nymeria bubbled cheerfully, as if to make a point.

Oberyn rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder, facing his daughter – no, _their_ daughter, for all intents and purposes she was _their_ daughter now, Arthur had all but confirmed it –, making a face at her that set her off giggling and crooning, trying and failing to distract from his emotions with a thinly-veiled attempt at humour.

“You heard her. _Of course_ we’ll have you. No need to ask, I assumed … I quite like the idea that I can be the irresponsible parent and you’ll compensate for it. You’re not ‘just Uncle Arthur’, my beloved, you’re her Papa and I’ll gladly fight anyone who says anything to the contrary. Anyone at all. That’s what paternal instincts do to you after all.” He clenched his fists, taking a deep breath, for he was well aware that he was rambling incoherently. “What I’m trying to say is … She won’t be a sweet babe forever, we need to raise her a good person. And for that I need you. We both do.”

Arthur chuckled softly, bowing down to kiss Oberyn’s head and then Nymeria’s. “Good thing then that I love you both,” he said, voice finally breaking, “My warrior princess and her idiot father.”

“Language, Arthur!” Oberyn admonished quietly.

When he kissed his man with their daughter’spudgy little arms still clinging around his neck Oberyn was certain to be the happiest man in Dorne and beyond, happy enough to burst.


	4. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little more than a year after Arthur left Oberyn to join the Kingsguard because he couldn't take Oberyn's cheating and lying any longer, the Princess of Dorne dies and Arthur returns home for the funeral.

Standing in the corridor that led to the guest quarters Oberyn hesitated, shuffling from one foot to the other. He was about to open the door, but then he reconsidered and knocked instead. That’s what you did before entering _guest quarters_ after all.

“Come in!”

The door gave a grating screech; Oberyn just stood there, hovering in the entrance. Arthur’s back was still turned, but their eyes met in the mirror. Oberyn’s expression was sheepish, Arthur frowned. He had obviously been getting ready for bed already, standing at the dresser and wiping his face with a soft cloth.

“Why are you not down in the sept?”

“The last three nights of vigil are family only,” Arthur stated matter-of-factly, albeit with a hoarseness in his voice that betrayed his calm demeanour.

Oberyn froze on the spot. It hurt tremendously hearing it phrased that way. _You are family,_ a voice in his head corrected, a voice that should have screamed at him, _she loved you as a son, you should be there with her, with all of us._ But he was right of course. At one point he had been considered family, defying protocols of court and everything, but that was before … before Arthur had chosen to leave him, leave _them_ , his man and his girls and the rest of the family, all but fleeing Dorne to start a new life in the Capital.

Mother had been ever so proud. Another son of Dorne joining the well-renowned ranks of Aerys II Targaryen’s Kingsguard, serving alongside her beloved little brother Lewyn and five of the best knights in the known world. For all that it was an honour becoming a White Knight was an enormous sacrifice. A life of duty and deprivation, sealed in a vow. He knew that Uncle Lewyn had struggled, that he’d only chosen this path out of love for his sister. Mother had just celebrated her twentieth nameday when she’d inherited the rule of Dorne, a maiden inexperienced in matters of politics, and there had been some voices in favour of Lewyn who, despite being but ten-and-eight had already made a name for himself as a commander on sea and an anointed knight, so Lewyn had decided to remove himself from a situation that would or wouldn’t have got out of hand, and he managed to tie Dorne closer to the Crown in the process for there hadn’t been a Dornishman appointed to the order of the White Knights in a very long time. It had been Lewyn’s choice and his alone – nobody could force a young and headstrong prince of Dorne into anything against his will, that much was sure – but from what he’d told Oberyn Mother had always felt a certain guilt, knowing full well what her brother had forsaken for her benefit. If Mother had been aware of what had driven one Arthur Dayne to take this vow she’d certainly never said anything and her silence had said everything.

“Why aren’t you there?” Arthur was taxing him with intense purple eyes that were as puffy and swollen as his own.

Oberyn shrugged helplessly. “Too much incense. It made me nauseous, and it made me cry. I needed to get away for some time.”

Arthur wordlessly furrowed his brow, of course he knew him to well to believe this asinine excuse. He was at his side in but two big steps, gathering him into an embrace. Oberyn collapsed at his chest, utter exhaustion washing over him, finally feeling like he had something to hold onto, something to tether him and keep him from sinking. A sob broke out and he didn’t care to stifle it.

He shouldn’t be asking this of Arthur, not after everything that had happened between them a year back when Arthur had left him for good, and for a good reason - not for glory and honour in the service of the kingsguard, but because he couldn't bear being in a relationship with Oberyn any more. But he wasn’t asking, he was all but assuming, and Arthur was all but offering freely or at least he didn’t seem to mind.

“It won’t change anything, Oberyn,” Arthur said, as if he had sensed Oberyn’s thoughts, “I’m not coming back, not ever, but I’m not leaving you to fend for yourself tonight.”

Oberyn gulped. “Thank you, Arthur. Truly. I didn’t think you still …” – _loved me?_   - “… cared.”

Arthur gave him a long, sad look. “I care. And I know what it’s like to lose a mother.”

Moria Yronwood Dayne had perished when Arthur had been a boy of seven namedays, taken by a fever; it was her untimely death that had brought Arthur to court, having him foster with the ruling family while his lord father was overcome with grief. Loreza Nymeros Martell, ruling Princess of Dorne, had been killed in a riding accident that shouldn't have happened, but the three children she left behind were a decade older than the Dayne siblings had been.

“Gods, Arthur, I’m sorry. I’m a man grown, I should know how to handle myself. It must’ve been so much worse for you ...”

“I don’t know.” Arthur gave a shrug. “Of course I still _needed_ her more being a child and all. But now I sometimes feel like I didn’t even know her, like all I remember is clouded memories and what Father and Aloys told me about her. But you … you had the chance to grow close to her. You know what you’re missing.”

Oberyn sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. “This is not a contest.”

Arthur settled down next to him, placing a gentle arm around his shoulder. “No, it’s not.”

Oberyn sighed again, laying his head down, dropping his hands to Arthur’s knee, letting him stroke his hair. It felt so familiar and yet so odd, as if there was something missing … and quite obviously there was. They were a couple no longer, even though he did his best to care there was no love left in Arthur, it was quite obvious from his stiff and distanced demeanour. It was like he was going through the motions, embracing him and holding him and comforting him, but everything that had ever made it special was gone. He didn’t nuzzle his face in his hair, he didn’t run the back of his hand down his side, he didn’t curl their fingers together, he didn’t press his palm to the small of his back giving it a gentle rub, he didn’t whisper that he loved him, only that everything was going to be alright, but it wasn’t. Nothing was _alright_ any more.

A wave of grief surged over him, threatening to drown him when he broke out in tears. Whether he was mourning for Mother or for Arthur he couldn’t say.

“You know what I miss most of all?” Arthur said when the silence became deafening.

A sudden dizziness overwhelmed Oberyn, making his mind reel and his imagination run wild. _I miss your kiss. I miss waking up next to you. I miss sparring with you. I miss listening to you singing to the girls. I miss fighting with you. I miss …_ “No,” was all that he said, knowing full well that what whatever Arthur was about to say it probably wouldn’t be what he wanted to hear.

“You remember how she’d sit at the breakfast table by first light of morning, going through the news and the letters? She’d mutter into her teacup and comment on everything she was reading, expecting us to pay attention and come up with advice …”

Oberyn choked on the laughter building up in his constricted throat. “… and we’d have to play guessing games until Father would say something along the lines of ‘Reza, m'dear, if it’s my informed opinion you want you need to tell me more than that whoever wrote that is an utter imbecile!’”

“Exactly.” Arthur, suppressing a chuckle, gave a wan smile.

With the memories the words came tumbling, the border between nostalgia and pain blurred, and they sat reminiscing for a long time, laughing and crying together, remembering what they'd long thought forgotten, and it was a relief of sorts. 

“I remember that she always claimed to be terribly busy and yet every other time when I looked up she was there, standing in the arcades, watching us spar or wrestle or whatever it was that we were doing. She never cheered or clapped or smiled, of course, but she was there and she was …”

“Proud,” Arthur supplied, “And for a good reason. Doran might be her heir, but she was always so proud of you.”

“And of you.” The words had left Oberyn’s mouth before he could consider, let alone stop himself. “You wouldn’t know, you were stood facing away from all of us, but when they made you the Sword of the Morning … I swear she had a tear in her eye.”

“You’re making that up,” Arthur protested, but his voice was breaking, “Only time I’ve ever seen her all emotional was when Arianne was born.”

“Of course,” Oberyn said bitterly. _When Arianne was born_ , Arianne the heir, not Nymeria the first grandchild, Doran's daughter - the trueborn daughter - not their daughter, not any one of theirs. Arthur instinctively squeezed his hand.

“Remember when her crown was stolen?” he said, obviously intent on conjuring happy memories, and Oberyn couldn’t help but laugh.

When she’d found the dainty circlet of gold and amber and garnets missing one day, Mother had sent the castle guards out immediately. It was Arthur himself who managed to apprehend the thief and bring her before the enraged princess. _‘’tis not a crown, silly! ‘_ _tis a pretty necklace!_ _’_ the thief had insisted with deep indignation in her four-year-old voice, _‘Crowns go on the head!’._ Despite Nymeria’s squirming protest Mother had pried the precious heirloom off her and place it on her own head instead, right where it belonged without falling down over her nose and to her shoulders. Nymeria had scowled in protest when she realised that it fit perfectly, and she had scowled even more when all the adults present, even her stern and scary grandmother who never smiled, burst out into fits of laughter.

“How could I forget that? Seven hells! We were so happy back then …” Oberyn sighed leaning onto Arthur’s shoulder, it was a reflex he couldn’t quite suppress.

“We were,” Arthur said sadly.

Before he knew it his hand was on Arthur’s cheek, pulling him in for a forlorn kiss. When he realised what he was doing, when he realised that he really shouldn’t be doing what he was doing, Oberyn froze in shock but Arthur was still kissing him, so tenderly and ardently as if they’d never separated. Just when he’d managed to wrap his head around the fact that this was actually happening, just when he’d managed to wrap his arms around his erstwhile lover, Arthur backed away.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have …” he mumbled.

“Don’t be,” Oberyn whispered back, “please don’t be.”

“All I wanted was to be there for you, to make this easier for you.” The pain in Arthur’s voice was evident. “I realise I’m not the right person for that, not any more.”

“But you are.”

Everything came crashing down in this very moment. Oberyn finally allowed himself to let go of his inhibitions, to feel everything he’d firmly locked away for too long, and he started to sob uncontrollably. Arthur ran his fingers through his hair, pulling him close and placing a soft kiss onto his temple. Oberyn stilled in terror when he realised how his heart clenched at the caress. He had suspected all along, never brave enough to admit it, not even to himself. It wasn’t Arthur’s body he was missing, it wasn’t the shattering orgasms he gave him he was yearning for, it was much deeper and much more frightening than that. His sweet devotion, his calming presence, his tender affection, that was what he was missing, and most of all, his unwavering love. He was utterly and completely lost on his own.

“Thank you,” was all that he managed to say when he'd finally regained his composure.

“Of course,” Arthur said softly, and it somehow sounded like _I love you_.

But when Oberyn awoke, hoarse and raw despite having slept well for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, Arthur was long gone.


	5. Harrenhal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five years after their separation Arthur cannot forgive and Oberyn cannot forget. Harrenhal is the place to be for scorned lovers.

Oberyn could barely suppress a gasp as Arthur walked into the room. He was handsomer than ever in his White Knight armour, hardened by age and duty, and the shorter coif that made his hair look darker than before suited him. After having unstrapped his swordbelt and set down Dawn by the door he lazily stood to attention with well-rehearsed nonchalance that couldn’t quite suppress his nervousness. Their eyes locked; something inside Oberyn was upended.

“My prince,” he said, too curtly and too politely; two words he’d only ever spoken with a teasing glint in his eyes and heavy innuendo in his voice, obviously emphasising the possessive over the honorific, and what he’d meant was never my _prince_ but my _love_. Never, that is, up until now.

Oberyn’s throat went dry, unable to say anything. He had summoned Arthur meaning to speak to him and ask his forgiveness, to hopefully find a way to reconcile, and he’d spent the better part of his journey north coming up with things to say, but now that he stood face to face with him it was as if everything had evaporated. He closed the distance between them with three big steps, and before he knew what he was doing his arms were around Arthur.

He surged at him without forewarning, grabbing the back of his head and sealing his lips with a hard and desperate kiss. For one moment Arthur responded with equal passion, forgetting himself and wrapping his arms around his back, making Oberyn melt into his taller, broader figure, drinking in his heady scent, salt and virility, like a starving man, revelling in the sweet and sorely missed familiarity of Arthur’s wicked tongue ravishing his mouth.

Just one moment, one moment too long, and then Arthur stiffened, shoving Oberyn aside.

“Fuck you, Oberyn.”

 _Gods, what possessed me? I shouldn’t have done that._ He stared down at the floor, burning in shame. _But … he did kiss me back._

“What is it? Have you run out of ladies and lordlings willing to bed you? Are the whores on strike as of late?”

“Arthur, don’t, please. Don’t do this to me.” Oberyn flinched, knowing full well that he did deserve the brunt of Arthur’s ire masked as irony. How naive to think that one Arthur Dayne couldn’t hold a grudge for nigh on half a decade. _But he did kiss me back,_ the small voice in his head cried triumphantly.

“What do you want, Oberyn?” Arthur hissed.

“I want …” The eloquent speech he’d prepared vanished, leaving Oberyn scrambling for words.

“Wait.” Arthur raised his hand abruptly. “It’s always been about what _you_ want after all. Don’t bother, I don’t care. And seeing that there is no real reason for me being here apart from what you _want_ …” He turned away then, giving him a scathing glare. “By your leave, my prince.”

“What I _want_ is to lick your nipples ‘til you scream, to stroke your balls ‘til you weep.”

Oberyn knew full well how cruel his words were, but the outcome was just as he had intended. Arthur paled and there was utter confusion written all over his face. Of course there was, for all that he was stuttering there had been a purpose in Oberyn’s words, naming the two things Arthur enjoyed most that didn’t involve doing anything to Oberyn in return, concentrating only on him and his pleasure. Maybe Arthur needed reminding that, despite everything, Oberyn had never been a selfish lover. _Celibacy_. What an utterly ridiculous notion. For all that he seemed restrained and reasonable, Oberyn knew Arthur intimately … he knew the uninhibited side of him, the slow and steady burn of his passion, the all-consuming depth of his desire, _Gods, did he miss it!_ Arthur Dayne was not made for a life of chastity and self-imposed deprivation. _Idiot_.

“Can’t always get what you want.” Arthur gave a growl, and there was a glint in his eyes that Oberyn couldn't quite place.

“It’s not about getting what you want, it’s about losing what you love,” Oberyn snapped back. “I want to hold you forever. I want to be with you. I want you back.”

“Even if I believed you … I swore a vow.”

He didn’t dare look at him; the sound of his voice, determination bordering on despair, was enough to shatter him. It wasn’t a _No_ , it wasn’t an outright rejection.

“So did Uncle Lewyn, and that never stopped him from …”

“I’m hardly a prince of Dorne, aren’t I? I’m not entitled to the same privileges.”

“You used to be in all but name.” Oberyn shrugged, stating the obvious and knowing full well it would throw Arthur off-kilter, “Also, you’re the bloody Dragon Prince’s best friend, that should amount to something.”

“Nevertheless. This is my life now.”

“You swore a vow to spite me, to teach me a lesson,” Oberyn spat, “I’ve learned it. I get it. Now get off your high horse and …”

“I am not an oathbreaker. Unlike _some people_ I’m true to my word.”

“Yes, it’s quite valiant to hide behind an arcane oath and some stupid notion of honour.”

“I’m not hiding and I’ll thank you not to insult me.”

“In that case, Arthur.” He took a step towards him, prowling, mustering up the courage to utter the hurtful words. “Say it to my face, for I need to hear it. _I do not love you any longer, Oberyn._ _I_ _do not desire you._ Say it, Arthur. You’re an honest man and you know me well enough to know that I’m not one to coerce people against their will. Say it and I’ll never bother you again. Say that you’ve grown indifferent to me, that the thought of laying with me repulses you, anything … fuck’s sake, say that you _hate_ me for everything I’ve done to you if that makes you feel better, but just don’t go citing that fucking vow of yours as if it were a valid reason.”

“I can’t!” Arthur cried out, hot tears springing into his eyes, “I bloody _can’t_.”

“I thought as much.” Oberyn’s voice broke.

They stood, facing each other helplessly. Oberyn held out his hands, trying to take Arthur’s, but he yanked away.

“Don’t do this to me, Arthur. Don’t do this to _yourself_.”

“Maybe consider what you’re doing instead? We wouldn’t be here if you had.”

“I’m trying to make amends is what I’m doing, don't you see? I still miss you, beloved, desperately so, and I’m not the only one who does …”

“Don’t you dare bring the girls into this,” Arthur snarled, his voice sharper than Dawn as he repeated his words, slowly and viciously, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Oberyn could not fathom how Arthur had found it in him to do it, to leave not only his lover but his family behind like that. Listening to Nymeria crying herself to sleep every night for many moons had hurt more than losing Arthur, and yet …

“Arthur, please …” Oberyn never begged, _never_. “Give me a chance.”

“You’ve had your chances, Oberyn, remember. Yet nothing ever changed, despite all your promises, and nothing could ever deter you from pursuing some shapely arse as soon as my back was turned and nothing could ever convince you to be honest with me. Fidelity was too much to ask, I understand that now, but _honesty_?” There was sadness in Arthur’s voice now, and resignation. “Do yourself a favour, Oberyn. Go out there, find yourself something to fuck and forget that I ever existed.”

“Arthur … I couldn’t. I can’t. I love you so much it hurts.”

Arthur flinched visibly, if only for a second Oberyn had hope, but then he steeled himself again.

“Well, that certainly never stopped you before,” he snarled, picking up his swordbelt and throwing a last, disdainful glare in his direction. “It’s too late for us now, Oberyn, and you’ve only got yourself to blame for that.”

The door slammed shut, leaving Oberyn oddly bereft. How could it be that even quarrelling with that impossible man aroused him; leaving him achingly, frustratingly hard? Something – or rather: someone – needed to be done in order to get him out of his system. _Find yourself something to fuck_ is what Arthur had said after all.

He would find a willing squire with broad shoulders and pale hair, and he’d trick his mind into believing it was Arthur kneeling before him. No mouth wrapped around his cock, no hand settled firmly on his rear pulling him closer would ever be as good as Arthur’s of course, but it had been so long that he couldn’t quite remember the details of what exactly it was that had made Arthur so truly exceptional. Quite possibly it wasn’t one trick or technique, he thought with a sigh, more likely than not it was just Arthur being Arthur …

Why was he doing this to himself, time and time again? He really shouldn’t. He should find someone as different as possible … a cheerful wench with delicious fat thighs and supple breasts, that would do nicely. That kind of distraction had worked well enough before, and furthermore it had given him Sarella, but …

No, it wouldn’t do, nothing of all that would do, tourney scuttlebutt and all. He had something to prove to Arthur … he would have to prove that he could be a better man, the kind of man he wanted, the kind of man he deserved.

Sighing, he undid the laces on his breeches and took matters into his own hands.


	6. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Oberyn returns home to Dorne in the aftermath of the war, Arthur isn't there to greet him.
> 
> (The one time he didn't kiss him back.)

His voice was brittle, his words were hollow. “My condolences.”

The Lord of Starfall – Aloys, as of late, for all that it still seemed like he was wearing his lord father’s insignia that he had taken from the chest in his solar without permission, a boy eager to play at being a great lord – inclined his head politely; his lady wife, Ysille Santagar, held out her hand for him to kiss with the haughty grandeur that could only come from a landed hedge knight’s second daughter who had married well above her position. Neither said a word, as if it was their grief and theirs only. Were he still able to feel anything he would feel shattered.

“I wish to pay my respects.”

“An honour, my prince,” the Santagar woman – Lady Dayne, she was _Lady Dayne_ now – said airily; he wanted to slap her. At least Aloys had the decency to say “Of course” and made to lead the way to the sept without further ado.

“I have a request to make, Lord Dayne,” he said outright, falling in step with the man.

Aloys tilted his head aside, mustering him critically. “I might not like you, Oberyn, but for all the good it did him my brother loved you and I shall do my best to honour his memory.”

He gave a curt appreciative nod, grateful that he didn’t have to fight him over this, for there was no fight left in his body. “When I die – be it tomorrow, be it when I’m a hundred years old – I want to be laid to rest here, by his side. And I want the same for our daughters, whether they die before or after me, unless they have made their own arrangements by then.”

He had thought on it quite a lot but he still wasn’t quite sure what Aloys’ reaction would be. Either he’d put up a fight, unable to see past his disdain, or he’d blab some nonsense about how it would be a great honour to House Dayne to be the final resting place of a royal prince of Dorne. Thankfully, he did neither, proving himself as pragmatic and practical as the Daynes he preferred. “It can be arranged. I’ll see to it that the necessary preparations are made, I trust you did the same already.”

“I did. Thank you,” he said, stunned, biting back the urge to add _brother_ , for it would certainly be misinterpreted as sarcasm, though for the first time ever it wasn’t.

They had reached Starfall’s sept, flooded with soft silvery light and the scent of lavender, incense and salt. He had always liked this place; one needn’t be particularly religious to appreciate its tranquil beauty that inadvertently reminded him of the love he had lost. Had it been his choice he would’ve buried him at that cursed tower up in the mountains where they’d been so incredibly happy once upon a time, but of course he hadn’t been asked given age-old traditions and the rather unconventional nature of their relationship and the fact that he had been far away over the sea when it happened. Nevertheless, he was glad that he had been laid to rest in beautiful surroundings, not someplace dark and stuffy like most septs were. For some reason he was relieved that he had missed his funeral too, just like he had missed his sister’s and her children’s; he was glad he could pay his respects and say his farewells in private, without a septon telling him what to think and to feel and a thousand anonymous spectators staring at him with cynical eagerness, judging his every move and every crack in the mask he would have to wear to keep him from shattering, leeching on a display of emotions that he wouldn’t allow himself to show and that weren’t theirs to feel. At least the gods he didn’t believe in to begin with, for no god that was worth believing in would see fit not only to rob him of his sister and his lover over the course of three moon’s turns but have them slain so cruelly, had granted him as much mercy. He took a deep breath, drinking in the fragrant air.

He remembered the first time he had set foot in here, eagerly tugged along by the very hand he had wanted to hold for the rest of his life, though it hadn’t been quite as calloused back then. They had spent the better part of a daytrailing the tombs and listening to the vibrance in his voice, as excited as it was awestruck, recounting tales of the lives and deaths of his revered ancestors, those who had been so much more than the most skilful swordsmen of their respective time and valiant and honourable knights. They had talked about the future, then, for the first and maybe the only time, sharing hopes and fears and secrets and stealing a kiss or two, positively scandalised by the notion that they were _kissing_ in a _sept_ of all places.

He remembered the second and last time when the sept had been decked out in lavish silks of purple and lavender for a ceremony that was as ancient as House Dayne itself and so much more important than any other ritual that held the house and the family together since the days when there were still kings of the Torrentine or even longer than that. How proud he had been that day, watching in awe as he received the honours he deserved so much despite – no, because, actually – his fear that he wouldn’t be able to live up to the responsibilities and expectations that came with the title bestowed on him. He had been magnificent that day, all in resplendent silver and majestic purple, shining like a star in the first light of morning as the dream he’d never quite dared dream came true, and more importantly he had been very much _alive_.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” Aloys said softly, touching a hand to his shoulder in a gesture that was surprisingly caring, brotherly even, “Take your time. Dinner gong will be rung an hour before evenfall. Make sure to be there, my lady wife and the dowager are expecting you.”

“Thank you,” was all he could muster, standing before the newly sculpted tomb that held the remains of the last Sword of the Morning.

Dawn was on his chest, marble hands keeping the ancestral blade safe for generations of Daynes yet to come, and for a very long time he didn’t dare avert his gaze from her pale milkglass blade and the familiar ornaments on her hilt. His chest tightened in agony, a strangled sob built up in his throat, and when he finally mustered the courage to take a closer look at the statue that was lying upon the tomb’s lid he couldn’t see much because his eyes were already filled with tears.

He hesitantly touched his fingers to the cool white marble, feeling a sharp stab in his heart as he remembered every instance he had been fondly jesting about his stony face and chiselled features. His handsome face wasn’t actually supposed to be chiselled from actual stone, serene and forever, and the fact that the stonemasons had done a frightfully good job made it hurt even more. He was barely able to breathe as he slowly traced along the contours of a face he knew so well, the likeness of the man he loved more than anything.

“Farewell, beloved. My Arthur. I miss you so …”

Talking to a statue felt ridiculous and yet he felt the need to say something, anything, words he had never wanted to say. For all that they had both been quite aware of the dangers their occupation and their way of life entailed neither had paused to consider the consequences. They had always been life-affirming and firmly rooted in the present. Nevertheless, when thinking about their deaths for all men must die they had always been wizened old men before his mind’s eye, falling asleep in each others’ arms never to wake up again, surrounded by their daughters and a dozen grandchildren, testimonies to a life well lived, full of love and laughter. Yet the inevitable had happened, leaving him to face this future alone, a future he didn’t particularly care for now that he could no longer share it with the one person who truly mattered.

He leant forward, bowing over the tomb, touching his lips to the cold, smooth stone. He stood like that for a moment too long, frozen in time, feeling his heart break and his soul crush as he realised that he was subconsciously waiting for the impossible to happen, for this last kiss to be reciprocated.

Oberyn Martell fell to his knees next to Arthur Dayne’s grave and wept.


End file.
